


(Love) Tactics

by Hyoushin



Series: blue winter roses [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Cyvasse, F/M, Jon Snow is a Stark, Matchmaking, R plus L equals J, Rated T for Tyrion, The King in The North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: Lady Arya was the key to the union of two opposing kingdoms.  And Tyrion Lannister was thrown in the middle of it all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anam_Cara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anam_Cara/gifts).



> This fic is a fill for [This Amazing Prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8226247/comments/78406862) and omgods I'm so nervous, I feel like I deviated from what you wanted(?) I dunno I'm not sure. But I reaaally hope you like it.  
> (By the way, I don't know much about cyvasse it seems no one knows so I made up most of it. I tried. I'm sorry.)

She was wiping the floor with his arse.

Arya of House Stark was a mean strategist. Tyrion Lannister knew that now. But he was nothing if not persevering. The girl, who was almost a woman grown, was looking straight at him. The mind behind that gray gaze could predict his moves, decode his elaborate machinations, and see through his feints. He had taught her well, too well, in fact.  After a few months of teaching her the mechanics of playing _cyvasse_ , she had become a real challenge. And that was just the way he liked it.

If the atmosphere was laced with harmless competitiveness, they would play in silence. Otherwise, they would talk about wherever it came to mind. Arya, as he was permitted to call her, was bold, forthright, and resourceful but also cautious and even wily at times; characteristics which manifested themselves in their games and conversations. She really was delightful company when she wanted to be.

It had been extremely excruciating to climb over her wall of hostility, Tyrion remembered, a wall higher, thicker, and much more fearsome than the seven hundred feet one marking the end of the world. But climb he did for Daenerys had almost made it a command, and he could not refuse his queen lest he be turned into the afternoon snack for her cute, fire-breathing children.

Lady Arya—it was surprising no one in this castle hadn’t realized this—was the key to the union of two opposing kingdoms. The good queen believed that somehow he could find a way to expedite this union, so she chucked him out of the South and landed not quite sober in the snow-covered lands of the North. Although it was partly his fault, he supposed, as he was the one who voiced a certain offhand remark during their last private council— _the King in the North? He has Stark and Targaryen blood, if I were him I’d further legitimize my rule by wedding one of the Stark sisters and be done with it. It would surely shut all the remaining querulous mouths yapping nonsense; his mixed blood would also bind both kingdoms. Convenient._

Throughout his stay, he learned what he needed to plant the seeds of a mere possibility ( _your grace, it has not escaped my notice that you have two beautiful cousins)_ and if everything went according to his plans ( _I’d imagine that marriage proposals have been overflowing your royal drawers, and perhaps, wearing thin your royal patience)_ then that possibility would blossom into the expected outcome.

But first, he had needed to befriend the Stark sisters.

Even though she had welcomed him into their home with a healthy dose of suspicion, Sansa Stark had presented not too many difficulties. Thus, ingratiating himself with her this time around had been rather uncomplicated, for she was not his unwilling wife and no longer shadowed by the malicious presence of his late charming nephew and his sweet mad sister. Besides, she was a reasonable woman, cordial to the bone, and his conduct during their brief acquaintance and subsequent marital life had vouched for him—he never thought something good would one day come of all that and yet, to his never-ending amusement, it did. _Life is prone to doing such bizarre things, indeed_. With Sansa, he had been able to build a base for a solid partnership.

Arya, however, had been another matter altogether. Her obstinacy was to be admired.

The process had been slow and troublesome, but with Sansa’s assistance he had managed to lower her defenses, at least low enough to establish an understanding of sorts, which had begun as a brittle, mangled thing that gradually evolved with persistence and effort into reluctant amity. Tyrion was quite proud of the fruits of his labor. Her rancor for anything Lannister would never diminish, true, but so far he had done his very best to prove that he could be the exception, that he could be valuable as an ally. The clever girl, unlike many others in his past, had seen his worth. And for that purpose, it helped greatly that he had already earned the king’s regard.

“My lady,” Tyrion said, pushing a white elephant onwards. It was unlikely that she would take the bait, but hope was cheaper than any whore in the realm. “I am curious by nature and—”

An inelegant snort interrupted him, “from the tales you've related to me, I consider it’s a wonder that curiosity hasn’t killed you yet. Sometimes it’s like you’re asking for it. If you want death so badly, say the word, and I’ll give it to you nice and clean. Promise.” An elfin grin settled upon her face. Her gray eyes sparkled.

Truly delightful, this child. “Sadly, I cannot. Didn’t you know? I’m the god’s fool, they do love watching me dance amongst men.”

Arya Stark let loose a hearty laughter. “I can believe that. Your elephant looks delicious but I’ll pass. It might upset my dragon’s stomach. Try again.” 

“Oh, I will, I’m not that easy to defeat.” _Let’s lay trap number two. I can be crafty. Bold too, like you. Ask Father, if he were alive he’d tell you how bold and crafty I can be._ “Say, have you ever thought about marriage?” He rearranged a third of his vanguard. Behind the crossbowmen and spearmen, he placed his trebuchets. He ought to take care of her black dragon, he had lost most of his infantry to its imaginary fire; she was wont to use it in spontaneous attacks that made him grind his teeth.

Slowly, her eyes narrowed. Her response was terse, “no. I haven’t.” As if sensing a threat, she reinforced the guard surrounding her black king by adding catapults, crossbowmen, and heavy horses. Her dragon and her elephants were at the forefront, prepared to scorch and crush his army respectively. Her intentions were transparent. Her patience ran out. She wanted to end this quickly.

 _She lies. And she isn’t even bothering to hide it._ “Is that so? I thought that a swarm of suitors would be chasing you by now. Perhaps…your kingly cousin has had a hand in avoiding that?” Tyrion altered the initial aim of the trebuchets, instead of those pointing to the dragon, they would hurl their boulders towards the protection around her black king, while his catapults would defend what remained of his soldiers from the black elephants. His light and heavy horses would open a path for a sneaky spearman that Tyrion had tasked with killing the king.

Arya frowned, taking a sip of mulled wine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Suitors? Maybe Sansa has them, it is to be expected. She’s beautiful.” She set many of his pieces on fire and advanced towards his white king.

“She is, isn’t she? Your sister has them, I assure you. Jon has even requested my counsel.” He drained his cup of Arbor gold and filled it anew. He put his white dragon before his black counterpart and the real battle commenced. It was an all or nothing wager, for his king was in peril. “But proposals with your name in it have been raining down on him. It appears you have captured the hearts of many a young man.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “You jest, my lord. And here I was starting to enjoy your society,” she uttered in a tone intermingled with hints of frost. Their dragons were frozen in place, engaged in combat, therefore, her black elephants kept on moving as her soldiers slaughtered, piece by piece, their white enemy.

“No. I do not. Your king is swamped with letters and restrained by expectations. Every House, great and small, is contending for you and Sansa. But he has to consider potential brides for himself as well—all the usual responsibilities that arise from kingship,” Tyrion sighed as he uncrossed his legs to let them dangle from the edge of the cushioned chair, “it must be so very exhausting.” The guard of the black king was falling apart. His spearman was getting near. Tyrion fed his white soldiers to the black enemy. _In war, sacrifices are always made. This has been my bloodiest play ever. The things this girl has me do. I’m doomed._

Her full attention was on him in a blink. “Jon is going to _wed_?” the words came out of her so loudly that they echoed off the walls. “He hasn’t mentioned to me anything of the sort.” Unbeknownst to her, she was striking in her anger; she looked indomitable with her eyes ablaze and danger seeping through her aura.

“Must he? He _is_ a king.” Tyrion stated. His mismatched eyes swept the _cyvasse_ board. _She is distracted. She is going to lose. Lose!_ “He has to pick someone, the sooner he does that the better, so conflict among Houses can be averted.”

Arya didn’t think through her next move. She only progressed to her end. “Tell it true. Has he picked someone? _Who_?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Last we spoke, he asked me what my opinion on the candidates was. I told him they were all good choices, but—” His dragon was dead. His army was dead. But his one sneaky spearman was before the black king. _Farewell._

“But?” Arya prompted, raising an eyebrow. Her mind was not on the game anymore. “But what?”

 _So lovely. Jon would be the only one who could ever survive you._ “Well, I said that he should consider his two beautiful cousins too.”

Arya choked on her wine, boggled by what he just said.

 _The girl looks at me as though I didn’t have a nose, ah but wait._ Tyrion bellowed a hard and deep laugh. His lungs prolonged the sound for a great satisfying while. “He looked at me the same way. Despite whatever people may think of me, I gave that suggestion seriously and lucidly.”

“I suppose I should congratulate Sansa then.” She suddenly adopted a subdued air and that look on her was as dreadful as his face.

“Pray tell, why do you immediately assume he’ll wed Sansa and not you? I thought you were clever.”

“I thought you were noseless not blind.” Arya retorted with some of that passion and vivacity that never failed to captivate the people around her.

A profound sigh conveyed his exasperation into the world. _Children._ “Arya, of House Stark, you will listen to me. I don’t offer empty compliments. So when I say someone is beautiful I mean it, for I’ve seen countless women that I might be an expert on the subject. _You_ ,” Tyrion stressed as he gestured at her entire figure, “are beautiful.”

How she bloomed beneath honest praise!

_Incredible._

“Now, answer me this, would you wed him, Arya?” came the blunt question. “If he should wed you, you’d become queen. You would rule the North beside him, the territory of your forebears. He would bed you and you would bear the children who will rule when both of you cannot.”

His frankness stunned her into silence. The color in her cheeks intensified. Between the fairness of her skin and the rich shade of brown of her hair, the addition of a dash of scarlet produced a most appealing view—even when she was dressed in a simple raiment consisting of snug black breeches, a flowing white tunic, and knee-high boots.

Tyrion went on. “If I were woman I wouldn’t dwell on it so much. He’s tall and handsome. Proper, courteous, and honorable like his not-father and has a kingdom to run besides. Alas, I’m not a woman, and I wouldn’t wed him, not unless he had a nice pair of teats, wide hips, and a cunt instead of a cock.” He sloshed a bit of wine over his jerkin as he raised the cup to his mouth. He drank most of his Arbor gold in one impressive gulp. _How much have I had?_

“Obviously, Jon wouldn’t force anyone to be his queen. I dare say he’s still the sweet, awkward boy I met all those years ago, weighty crown upon his now kingly head notwithstanding. If he had his way I’d wager he’d die lonely and unhappy. Might be he’s afraid to love, that’s the impression he has given me anyhow. If I’m right, which I must be, I wouldn’t blame him. Love can be an ungrateful bitch. It has bitten my hand more times than I can count.” _Ah, seven hells, I should be encouraging the girl to approach him. To accept him. To—fuck I don’t know. The one woman who ever loved me might be a cadaver in a ditch somewhere. I ruined her._

An insistent voice dragged him back from his impromptu rumination.

“Tyrion? You’re boring with too much wine in you. Your wits are the only good thing about you, that, and your skill at _cyvasse_. You should rest,” declared Arya, of House Stark, future queen, though she was still trying to deceive herself and everyone else about her unsuitability for the role.

Before she could stand, Tyrion said, “and you should tell him. I’ve seen how you look at him. He would not mind at all.” His lips contorted into a grin. Hideous, perhaps, but sincere, and sincerity mattered to this girl.

She jolted to her feet, the violence in her movement knocking over the _cyvasse_ board with its surviving pieces to the floor. “What would you know?” Arya inquired. She was not angry, he noticed, her pretty face just revealed a mix of weariness and hesitancy.

 _That will not do. “_ Oh _,_ my lady, I’m a man, or as some like to point out, a half-man, but a man nonetheless. I’ve seen how he looks at _you_.” Tyrion sank into the cushions, submerging himself into a red and yellow sea of satin and feathers. “Tell him or show him, that is if you’re willing to be a queen. He would never take your freedom away.”

Tyrion watched her go. A noise drew his eyes towards the round table. A lone _cyvasse_ piece had dropped and was rolling towards the wooden rim. Tyrion caught it before it could join the others down below. He unfurled his fist to discover Arya’s black king on his palm. He snorted. “Aren’t you a persistent little bastard? I won, you know. I won this game.”

He won, yet he didn’t find any pleasure in it. For he was unsure of how everything would play out hereupon.

_Kinslaying and kingslaying—why did I ever think matchmaking would be any simpler? Father, this demonstrates I’m not that versatile. Give me back the drains and cisterns of Casterly Rock, would you?_

* * *

* * *

  
“What have _you_ done?” thundered the king. “Sit.” He commanded, flinging away the letter he had been reading.

Tyrion had predicted this sort of development. “I’m used to being accused of things I know nothing of, but I still should like to be enlightened your grace,” Tyrion said as an answer. He waddled towards a chair situated near a rectangular writing table, which had every inch of its surface covered by layers of parchment. A tray with cold half-eaten food was abandoned on a corner. On the hearth, the flames were intent on consuming logs of wood.

Jon Stark loomed from the opposite side of this table, impatiently waiting. He decided to regale him with his grievance for he began with this, “Arya. She’s been avoiding me. The only words I could wrench from her were weddings, brides, and proposals. Whatever happened has your name all over it. You dare to feign ignorance now?”

Jon, as usual, was clad all in black, his regal form radiating somehow what must be the essence of the northern kings of yore. He was probably unaware of the effect he had on his surroundings. The man was a natural at inspiring loyalty, gathering people, and leading them. The faint scars on one small part of his face only added to his artless charm.

 _The gods are undeniably unfair._ “Ah, that. Of course.” Tyrion muttered. “Well, I may have _hinted_ at the not-exactly-fraternal affections you hold for her.”

“‘Do not say anything of this to anyone.’ Evidently, that was too demanding a job for you.” Jon’s hands closed around the arms of his chair. His countenance clearly expressed his contained wrath. “I repeat, what have you done?”

Tyrion could even taste the threat to his life. He squirmed in his seat, a little. “Why, I saved the both of you some needless misery. She’ll come around. I can guarantee it.” _Almost._ Tyrion smiled. In this particular situation, Arya was behaving as he foresaw. He hoped she kept following the pattern.

The tension didn’t leave Jon’s shoulders. “You came here as a guest. You need not interfere in our affairs.”

“True,” admitted Tyrion. “But just let me say that several kings have been men whose lives have been reigned by duty, and sometimes honor, but love is almost always absent. _You_ have the opportunity to do your duty with honor, like a good king, but you also can have that which most kings and many common men are not lucky enough to have close by. In fact, some people die long before they can ever savor it.”

“I’ve told you. It matters not whether I love her,” Jon grumbled. “She wouldn’t want all this for herself; never wanted to be a lady, why should she want to be a queen?” His grip on the arms of his chair loosened. Jon rose a hand to rub his temple, giving off waves of defeat. Then, he stood up. He walked towards the tall arched window at the farthest side of the solar. His carriage measured and graceful. His long hair, brown like Arya’s, veiled his back like a cape of Myrish silk.

 _Why do I bother? I could go back to King’s Landing and convince the queen I would cause indigestion to her dragons. But then—_ “Love makes people do things they never thought they would do.”

“That might be so. Honestly, for a while I believed that you two might….” Jon made an ambiguous gesture with his hand. “Men have a hard time getting close to her. You seemed not to have much trouble.”

“Your Lady Arya and me?” Tyrion burst into laughter. “Now that’s a droll notion! If you must know I don’t like them that young.”

Jon smiled. It was soft and small but it visibly diluted some of the fatigue saturating his limbs. Pale sunlight touched his features as he tilted his head towards the glass. His dark eyes were fixed on something outside.

Tyrion had an inkling of what, or rather, _who_ was the target of his observation. Arya was usually awake at this hour; engrossed in her training routines.

“I’m not even a true Stark. I never was,” Jon mumbled, looking pensive.

 _It’s too early for this. I need wine. Dornish, preferably._ “Stark _and_ Targaryen, like it or not you’re both. Nothing will change that. But as it happens, she cares not about any of that. She cares about the boy she grew up with and the man that boy grew into.”

“Has she said that to you?” Jon’s gaze flitted to him, and for an instant, Tyrion felt as though Arya was looking at him through those same eyes. The realization came to him unbidden—that there was a link between those two which transcended the boundaries of mortal comprehension. Was this the work of their gods? Of the mystic powers coursing through the veins of this land made of ice?

“There has been no need.” Tyrion smiled. “I’m a small man, not an unperceptive one.”  

“This is her place as much as it is mine own now. I want to have her beside me,” Jon proclaimed, determined.

“Be sure to invite me to the wedding, that’s all I require.”

“Aye, I’ll invite you and Queen Daenerys. This union would certainly benefit both Kingdoms, after all,” the king affirmed.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at those words.

“Surprised?” Jon chuckled. “You shouldn’t be. It wasn’t that difficult to puzzle out why you were keen on matchmaking.” Jon turned around to face him. The sunlight streaming through the window haloed his dark frame. “Love not only addles, at times it also sharpens.”

Tyrion grinned. _He shall be a fine ruler._

Having appeased the king, Tyrion took his leave. He whiled away the day by studying obscure scrolls and tomes in his chambers. He noticed that midnight had crept up on him when a nasty dream jerked him awake. He waddled to a basin with only the light of the moon serving as his guide through the dark. Although Tyrion washed the sweat off his skin as best he could, his back still felt rather clammy.

He then tried to go back to sleep in his bed, but the nauseous aftertaste of the nightmare he had lingered on his tongue. Thence, his feet steered him out of his chambers and towards the godswood. A tallow candle illuminated his path and a flagon of ale, snatched from the kitchens, restored him. He was not a religious man, but Winterfell’s godswood had a special quality he could not identify or describe properly; it disconcerted him, yet he could not deny the allure inherent to the place since he visited it as often as a religious man.  

By the time Tyrion entered the woods his legs were aching, so he reclined against a tree to massage them. Afterward, he resumed his stroll. As he neared the heart tree, he espied two human shapes huddled up together neath its red crown. Careful not to step on twigs and dry leaves, he got a little closer and peered into the gloom from behind a tree trunk.

 _Ah._ He recognized them. It was impossible not to when he had been seeing them daily around the castle. They were fast asleep under heavy furs tucked tightly around them. The direwolves, Nymeria and Ghost, were stretched over the snow-coated ground, each at either side as two ancient sentinels ensuring the safety of their humans. Tyrion was disturbed to encounter Ghost’s red eyes trained on him. He suddenly felt a thirst. But he remembered he had long emptied the flagon.  

Tyrion supposed it was time to depart. A smile crossed his scarred face. He had become fond of this family.

He made the trip back to his bedchamber in a meditative but lighter mood. The exercise helped to clear his head and vanish, if only temporarily, the ghosts haunting his subconscious.

He had done something good, had he not? The thought gave him a queer feeling.

Tyrion unlaced his boots, toed them off, and climbed onto his featherbed without removing his outdoor clothing. He pulled the furs over him, and soon, exhaustion carried him down into a pleasant, dreamless sleep. _Did you see that, Jaime? I’m not so hopeless at matchmaking. Who knows? Perhaps, one day I’ll find someone for me too._


End file.
